


Goldengrove Unleaving

by Vulgarweed



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comfort in a time of terror.</p><p>Set after Gandalf's confrontation with the Necromancer in <i>The Desolation of Smaug.</i> I have no idea how this will play out in TABA, but in this version, Galadriel has rescued him.</p><p>Written for Porn Battle XV (The Ides of Porn). Prompts: golden, morning, understanding, flaws</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goldengrove Unleaving

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from [this poem](http://www.bartleby.com/122/31.html) by Gerard Manley Hopkins

She has no flaws, and he is all made of them these long years, it seemed. Wrinkles and wounds, aches and pains, mortal complaints on an immortal spirit. And now it felt there was very little left to him, and such a long road up ahead yet.

Her hands are cool on his burning brow, her eyes full of Varda's lights – radiant yet, and not so cold and distant as they could seem in the sky; in her twilight eyes, the stars are almost intimate.

She twines her smooth, clean fingers through his gnarled ones, and there is a tiny, musical click of mithril as Nenya the white star touches fiery red Narya. He does not wear his charge openly, although only some eyes can see it. When he was out, feverish and weak and lost in nightmare, struggling his way out from the strangling grasp of the Necromancer's illusions, she must have undressed him, washed him, healed him. And she had found the ring of fire in its hidden place in deep in his robes, and she had put it on his finger.

He hears her voice. Are her lips moving? His sight is still blurry and he can't be sure. It never matters, with her. Although her lips are lovely and he hopes to catch a glimpse of them soon. “It's meant to restore and preserve,” she chides him gently. “It was not given to you so you could refuse to use it when you have such great need of it.”

“It is well I kept it secret in my last meeting,” he grumbles.

“He has no power over it. Or you.”

“Well,” he says, chuckling. “It's a very good thing that he has no power over me. I shudder to think how much more that would have hurt if he had.”

Yes, he can still make her smile. Dawn is breaking, and the morning warms. Her hair waxes silver by night, and gold in the sun. No wonder Fëanor had coveted it so – but Gandalf doubted it would retain such qualities if taken from the noble head that grew it.

“You jest, but still, your wounds pain you.”

“I may as well collect jests as scars. I'll have many more before this matter is settled. And the wounds of the body heal the fastest, and are therefore the funniest.” He swallows quietly and opens his eyes. “Beneath your lovely hands, I have no fear of pain.” He lifts one hand to his lips and kisses it. Her eyes are bright enough to burn. She flutters a little beneath his mouth, trailing loving fingertips through his long beard.

She'd washed him, he realized. With her own hands. His hair and beard feel silken-soft and scented. She'd seen him, touched so much of his aged mortal disguise. Seen through his wrinkled skin and everything that lay beneath and beyond. There is nothing forbidden to her, and in that moment he can almost forget she was not Maiar. Especially as she sheds her white gown to match him in nakedness. Especially as she lies over him with a glowing smile, as she runs her fingers through the grey hairs of his chest and loins.

“We are both Arda Marred, Mithrandir,” she says. “Look closer.” 

He looks with his heart and his skin, not his eyes, as he pulls her closer and she wriggles sinuously against him, tangling her legs with his, showing him with her movements that she is wet where he is hard, and this was nearly fitting. Name by name she calls him, and she knows them all.

She slides down his body as she speaks, kissing long woven trails as she goes. In his heart, then, there she is: beautiful and proud, but worn within by so many long years of grudge and grief. Cracks within her, repaired with gold – forever marked, and yet all the more lovely for them. “All could come to grief,” he whispers, tangled by the sweet temptation of her tickling tongue.

“All will,” she says softly. “But we may still choose the nature of that grief. Not all tears are an evil, and we must fight for the best of the sorrows.”

“Alatáriel,” he whispers. As if by calling her by that name, he could stop the turning of the world to loss and change and the falling of the leaves of Lórien; as if he could prevent the dark designs of Sauron simply by remembering his elder name; as if there were permanent bliss and safety in this temporary act of lovemaking.

She shakes her lovely head sadly over his hairy belly. She could ever read him, so clearly – she is tender with his longings and fears, but she does not coddle them. “Olórin,” she sighs. It is the last word she speaks before taking his eager member into her soft summer-warm mouth and pulls at him with a slow and perfect rhythm; unhumbled, unashamed, a gleam of mischief in her bright eyes.

Nenya and Narya click together again as she clutches his hand to anchor him; out of fear, out of darkness, out of a shadowed future, into the warm glory of a fair Middle-earth morning and the music of moans and sighs of pleasure.


End file.
